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"P OEMS 












TO MY 

FRIENDS AND MATRONS 

GREETING 

The purpose of this little offering is to assist in 
financing a larger and more pretentious volume 
intended as a souvenir for the many friends that 
greet me on the pathway of life with words of 
kindness and good cheer and smiles of gladness^ 
for which many thanks and all good wishes. 

L. D. ANDERSON. 











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WAR 



Oh, the dreadful note of war! 

How it booms o'er earth afar! 

How it thunders in our ears! 

How it startles all our fears! 

How it shatters, how it scatters 

The hopes and loves of a thousand years! 

The Priceless Treasures of a thousand years! 

Oh, the blood-red flames of war! 
Racing with demon speed, 
Ravening in its greed. 
And leaving only its horrid scar! 
Crushing its million lives, 
Starving, carving husbands, wives. 
Lovers, children, friends, and foes 
In its mad carnage of Hell-born woes! 
Quenching its thirst in widows ' tears, 
Making music of the orphans ' cries — 
Feeds on brothers' blood — and thrives! 

Blind are we as to its cause — 

Deep hidden in the hungry maws 

Of this insatiate monster! Who 

Shall break its horrid jaws; 

Tear away his dragon claws; 

And pierce its body through and through. 

That raging, gasping, in his bloody foam. 

He slinks to Hell — no more on earth to roam? 

Fear, Avarice, Greed, Ambition wild. 

Pride of Power, by Jealousy beguiled. 

Intrigue, Hypocrisy, Murder — all 

Unholy Passions bend unto its thrall 

Making demons of forms called men. 

Reddening the fair page of Peace 

With blood of Innocents — O what shall be the recompense? 

When shall the fiat forthy ** Cease, War, Cease!" — 

And Echo, in her anguish, cries, ''Oh, when? Oh, Whence?'* 



When shall the fiat forth, *' Cease, War, Cease! 

Whence shall come the blessed word of Peace? 

When her voice shall be heard above the roar 

And din of battle. When the mighty armies 

Are exhausted and stricken with horror 

At the devastation and slaughter 

Left in their wake. 

When this awful baptism of blood, 

Poured from the veins of the flower 

Of the Nation's manhood, 

And civilization stands aghast 

At the awful sacrifice. 

When Reason shall make her voice heard 

Above the awful ruin. 

And calls to her children to hearken 

To the voice of intuition and common sense, 

Proclaiming a better way than savage war 

To settle all their sore dispute. 

And they may know themselves as brothers, — 

Mistaken, it may be, in their views of right, 

Each obeying as his love of fatherland 

His conscience, and his duty shall command, 

Each fighting for he believes his cause is just; 

And as one strikes perforce the other must. 

May we not hope that this great protest. 

Now gathering force o'er all the world 

Against this awful sacrifice of life. 

Of commerce, art and treasure priceless, 

The common wealth of all the world, 

May penetrate the black and bloody veil 

Of selfishness and towering ambition 

And soften the cruel lust of pride and power; 

And more, that arbitration, wise and just, 

From the great counselors of the world 

Will pave the way to honorable peace, 

Looking forward toward a grand confederation 

Of Nations, — each a peaceful state, — 

Armaments dissolved, and callo^ by name, 

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''United Nations of the World," 

With a common navy to preserve their peace. 

No more will rise the cry of ** Cease, War, Cease. 

Then turn their dreadnaughts into ships of mart. 

Cast their cannon into homes and art. 

And say to all the world, ''War's age has passed, 

And this, the awful worst, shall be the last. " 



WHY HE DID NOT END SNAKE'S LIFE 

He*s a kindly old man — a real gentleman of the old school — one of 
the class that is fast disappearing. 

He was wont to come into the office now and then to submit a manu- 
script or poem, or to while away a few minutes with the editor in one 
of those quaint, delightful talks on Shelley and Keats and the other 
real masters. 

We had not seen him for several months, until yesterday. He came 
in long after the presses had stopped their daily grind, long after the 
sun had kissed the horizon its ever-loving afternoon good-by. 

A deferential ''Good afternoon, sir," awoke us from our task of 
getting *' to-morrow copy." We looked up from typewritten manuscript 
and saw the old gentlemen. 

We owe no allegiance to him, neither does he to us. But he's one 
of the good old men, whom God-fearing people honor. We're young 
yet, but we always look forward to be like unto him when time has 
silvered our hair and creased our cheeks. 

We shook hands — who would not? And for a half hour or more, 
he, who had weathered many storms and whose brain was just as act- 
ive as in the days when he was a boy, chatted and talked with delightful 



abandon to the writer, a young man, who remembers that he has a 
father, one like the ever-welcome visitor. 

The aged gentleman — it is a tribute in newspaper life to call a man 
a gentleman — was profuse in his apology for not having called for sev- 
eral months. But he had not been feeling well. Would the writer 
pardon him? He would certainly drop in every week or so thereafter 
if his health would allow him. 

And then the old gentleman told of how he had whiled the hours 
away by writing sonnets and poems, of how — 

But would the writer like to look over a little poem? And would 
the writer like to hear the motive that prompted him to write it? 

Who could refuse? His voice is low, but nevertheless vibrant with 
passion and tenderness. His eyes — they 're the eyes of a man in the 
sunset of his life — are pleading, the kind that grip you by the heart, 
make you puff your cigar strong to keep back the water that dims your 
eyes. His entire make-up — as a newspaperman would say — is defer- 
ential, respectful. 

And so we listened as this man, who writes poetry for the pure love 
of it, because something grips him and moves him to pen the words 
that rush to his brain, told us of the feeling of man. 

He told us of being in the woods one day and of coming across an 
adder coiled in the bright sun. He was moved to smite the snake 
dead and was about to carry out his determination when he saw the 
adder strike and kill a deadly insect. 

The adder was harmless The insect was not. The contrast saved 
the adder's life. 

Moved by what he saw, the aged gentleman went home — the adder 
went to its lair — and there he penned the following poem — it's the 
poem he submitted to the editor yesterday: 



THE STORY OF AN ADDER. 

An adder lay coiled on the grass mat flung, 
His jeweled scales flashing the glowing day 

Motionless, all but his forked tongue, 
Mutely warning my steps away. 

I watched him steadily a minute or two, 
As steadily as he was watching me, 

With never a quiver his whole length through, 
Spelling the words, "Don't trouble me." 

The ancient feud between serpent and man 
In the myth-drawn legends of the past. 

Awakened the slumbering hate that ran 
And over his beauty a pale light cast. 

I turned for a weapon to smite him dead, 
And gain for a trophy, his pattined skin; 

Quick turning back, his grace had fled 
And saved me committing another sin. 

What right had I to take it's life? 

For a useful purpose wisely given 
As a check, or balance in Nature 's strife. 

To keep her forces running even. 

It had its mission to fulfill, 

Important to the good of all, 
Created by Omniscient will 

To mark Ascension, not a Fall. 

No poison hidden in its fang, 
Or crushing folds for human prey; 

But yet the laws of life it sang, — 
Thus goes the world from day to day. 



SEA GIRT ISLE. 
Song — Poem 

There 's a Sea Girt Isle on a rugged shore 

That greets the rising sun, 
And meets with a smile the ocean 's roar. 

As the countless years roll on 

Over memories past and gone, 
She meets with a smile old ocean 's roar. 

As the pounding waves roll on. 



She rests like a queen in Neptune 's arms, 

In her silvery mantle dressed, 
And his proud heart beats beneath her charms, 

As he folds her to his breast. 

His strong arms round her pressed, 
His proud heart melts beneath her charms 

As she sings him songs of rest. — 



**0f the joy of the billows free, 

Of wild tempestuous sea, 

Of the calm and peaceful sea, 

Of the mysteries of the sea, 
Of the heaving surge, and mournful dirge 

Of the breakers on the lea; 
Of the sweeping gale and the shattered sail, 

In the breakers on the lea." 



She holds a light for the gallant tar 

That heaves in sight on the sea. 
And guides him true, o'er the outer bar, 

Through the cruel, angry sea. 

To his dear ones safe and free. 
She guides him true through the water's war. 

And the breakers on the lea. 



There, streams of wealth and culture flow 

From many a distant land ; 
For flowers of health and beauty grow 

Just over the rocky strand, 

By the salt sea breezes fanned; 
For the tints of health and beauty glow 

Just over the rocky strand. 

Oh, sweet as the rose, as the lily fair 

That deck those verdant dells. 
With violet eye and shining hair, 

A beautiful fairy dwells; 

Like a fawn of her mountain fills, 
With lovelit eye and sun-kissed hair, 

My beautiful fairy dwells. 



Once more 1 11 sail o 'er the salt sea waves. 

So whisper the ocean shells, 
To a Sea Girt Isle with its murm'ring caves 

Where my beautiful fairy dwells; 

And my song its secret tells 
To the whispering winds and the rippling waves, 

And they to the ocean shells. 

Again she trips o 'er the grassy meads. 

To reach the crystal shore; 
The flowers smile upward, where she treads. 

And cast their perfumes o 'er. 

Again I clasp her in my arms. 
And soul meets soul, and charm meets charm. 

And youth is mine once more. 

Gone are the faded locks of gray. 

The careworn, wrinkled face. 
And Youth, triumphant, hails the day 

With all its buoyant grace. 



8 



You ask whence came this fairy maid 

Into this world of mine, 
In ravishing charm of youth arrayed, 
From what fair world of light she strayed 

To link her life with mine? 
I answer not, for 'tis not given 
To tell of secrets held in Heaven, 

That must not be betrayed. 
But she came from realms, by angels trod, 

And we joy to accept, as a gift of God. 



DREAM 

I dreamed I sat within a vaulted room 
All hung with tapestry from richest loom, 
Paintings and statues from the masters ' hands, 
Gathered from the stores of many lands. 
A marble fountain shot its silvery spray 
Glistening in the candleabras ' ray. 
Dropping the pearls where perfumed waters lay — 
Holding a volume of poetic thought. 
By some exalted intellect enwrought, 
With sentiments of pure unsullied love, 
And thus essayed his noble theme to prove; 
And thus I read aloud his splendid lines. 
Three maidens fair enriched these sweet confines. 
And one with golden ringlets straying o 'er her face 
Stood by my side, her hand upon my shoulder lay. 
And conned the lines as thus we read away. 
And as I read, her ringlets brushed my face. 
And toned my utterance to its sweetest grae. 
She, turning slowly, silently her pretty heacd. 
While deep intent upon the lines we read, 
Quickly, softly as the touch of seraphs ' wing, 
Or Uke the breath of flowerets in Spring, 
Half concious, as one would pluck a spray 
Of mignonette upon a summer 's day. 



Kissed me so softly, one would scarcely know; 

She did not mean, perhaps, that I should know — 

But heavens! the thrill that stirred my very soul 

Betrayed the act — then quickly turned my eye. 

I know, fair maid, your cheek need not suffuse, 

I said. Twas like the roses kissed by summer dews. 

Twas for our author meant and not for me — 

That kiss, alas, can never reach its goal. 

A tribute pure unto the poet 's art, 

But I 'II retain in trust his honored fee. 

And yet I fain would claim it as his heir. 

Too pure for mortal passion, I do not dare 

Return it, but will prize the precious gift 

Above all jewels won by earthly thrift, 

And keep its mem 'ry sacred in my heart. 

No rude or sensuous thought shall see invade 

Its innocence and purity, sweet, sweet maid. 

But the presence of her companions. 

Who did not know, saved me, saved her. 

Perhaps, from I know not what. 

I could have caught her in my arms 

And smothered her in burning kisses, 

'Twas like the rush of mighty waters 

Sweeping all things before it, or the lightning flash 

Striking and destroying the things it loves. 

Conquering them with all the moral strength of will 

I said unto my passion. Peace, be still. 

Waking, the vivid memories o'er me stream; 

I love them still, and yet 'twas but a dream. 



10 
HUMMING BIRD'S SONG. 

One day when the roses were in bloom, 
And filling the air with sweet perfume, 
A humming bird flitted from flower to flower, 
Gathering its fragrant morning dower. 

Its beautiful wings reflecting the light. 
In rainbow hue, entrancing my sight. 
And a beautiful song she seemed to hum. 
I said to myself. ''Listen; be dumb." 

Whether from throat or wings that drum 
That splendid note of joy should come, 
I linger to see that singer so free. 
So little, so pretty, and ''then again some". 

Whir-ee-oo, whir-ee-oo, whir-ee-oo-ing. 
Like the twang of the lute or mandolin string, 
I whir with the wind, I whir with the wing; 
I 'm the humming bird, now hear me sing. 

charming bloom, of the June morning, 

1 fan your brow like a Burman queen; 
I kiss your lips with a rainbow wing; 
Listen, listen, and hear me sing. 

There 's a drop of honey near your heart, 
And a tiny dipper to play its part. 
And a tiny nest in the oo-um tree. 
Cunning, cunning, as ever you '11 see. 

With three little babes no bigger 'n a pea. 
Hungry as biggerer birds may be, 
Waiting, waiting, waiting for me 
In the warm little nest in the "oo-um tree. "" 



11 



Tiny strings of the heather brown, 
Filled with mullein and thistle down, 
I wove together in my airy loom 
To build my birdies ' eyrie home. 

Should ever you come to the oo-um tree, 
Where the rivulet sings its songs to me, 
Just breathe my name to the vibrant air, 
And I shall know that you are there. 

Then we'll sing together the joys of life, 
Away from sorrow, care and strife. 
While Nature joins with anthem free 
In the whispering leaves of the oo-um tree. 

Your drop of honey I '11 take for a fee 
For the song and kisses I give to thee — 
A fair exchange is no robbery. 
And off I go to the oo-um tree. 

Now whir away home o 'er the shimmering greea 
To a warm little nest you never have seen; 
Whir away home to my babies three — 
Good-by, sweetheart; remember me! 



12 
TWAS BUT A DREAM 

^Twas but a dream, the sixty years had rolled away, 
-And I was young again with all the sway 
Of youthful passions. Love 's sweet dreams 
Again absorbed my daily fancies. The gleams 
Of future triumphs in the wide, wide world 
Flashed brightly forth as time unfurled 
Its mystic scroll by hope and fancy writ. 
Alas! that fate could ne'er subscribe to it. 
And yet that dream and many more I 've had 
And all their sweetness makes my old heart glad; 
Their perfume lingers still within my soul 
And gathers fragrance as the seasons roll. 



TREASURES IN HEAVEN. 

Yet mourn I not, for why should I complain! 
For what I Ve lost shall be restored again 
With added treasure from the sacred mine 
Of Heavenly wisdom; there in beauty shine 
The lost of earth, A noble wife, my sons — 
Two gallant boys-and one life just begun, 
Gathering the riches of Celestial sphere 
To share with me when numbered are the years; 

And one fair maid, an honored matron now 
Given by Heaven, unsealed by nuptial vow, 
And she the mother, angels know her name, 
And welcomed when she quit the mortal frame 
To cross by duty bound, and yet in love to bear, 
Has won the crown that suffering heroes wear. 
Sometime I '11 sail o 'er the salt sea waves, 
So whisper the ocean shells, 
To a sea girt isle, with its murmuring caves, 
Where my song its story tells 
To the whispering winds and the rippling waves 
And they — to the ocean shells. 



13 
OLD MAN'S TOAST 

Nine times nine the sun has crossed 

My Vernal Equinox, 
And Summer *s suns and Winter 's frost 

Laid waste these scanty locks; 
But still my limbs bear sturdy up; 

My heart beats warm and true. 
Whatever Fortune fills my cup, 

I '11 drink it — Here 's to you 
My friends, and you, and you, and you. 

And when Dame Nature turns it o 'er, 

Mingled with earth to be, 
I trust to find on the other shore 
Its mate overflowing evermore 

From earthly foibles free. 
The more I drink, the more 'tis filled 

With the wine of kindly love. 
And I '11 waft its breath with the song I 've trilled 

To you from shores above. 



14 
THE LITTLE CAPTIVE FREED 

A humming bird in the garden strayed 
In all her beautiful plumes arrayed, 
Flashing the light of the summer sun, 
Dissolving his rays each one by one. 
Orange and gold, violet and blue. 
Emerald, amethyst, purpled hue. 
Yellow, crimson, e'er changing anew. 
Dissecting as 'twere with magic skill 
The sun's white light at her own sweet will. 
And as she flitted from flower to flower, 
Gathering her own sweet morning dower, 
I watched with delight her beautiful flight 
As she sang her song and charmed my sight. 

But now from the garden flower she flew 
Into the veranda behind the vines 
Of honeysuckle, whose latticed lines 
Captured her within their strong confines. 

Now, little beauty, to myself I said. 
Chance has to me a captive led 
On which imagination long has fed. 
From me, indeed, to you shall come no harm, 
So pray you now your little heart disarm; 
Let not its flutterings tell of mortal fear. 
For rescue from your prison sure is near; 
But first most gently pray, you understand, 
That you must captive be within my hand, 
That I may look you over from top to toe 
And count your beauties e'er I let you go. 



15 



Now carefully my kerchief o'er you falls — 
Nay, struggle not; you are in its thralls. 
Fear not; a little while and you will find 
We sometimes need be cruel to be kind. 
Now you are free, but still hold 
You in my hand, gently as a mother's fold, 
Precious one, all clad in green and gold 
And every other pretty hue untold. . 

Oh, what a marvelous instrument 

To ravish garden blooms of sweet content; 

With what audacious yet graceful theft — 

Unconscious they, of any store bereft. 

Those tireless wings, whose motions scape the eye 

And seem as one and all thy song supply; 

And oh, those little feet — what cunning fads 

Of Nature, — see those vacuum underpads 

To catch and hold whatsoe'er position 

Aye, of all thy pretty needs a full fruition. 

Now, little one, you are free; take wing; 
Rejoice with me in liberty and sing; 
Go find your mate, your nest, your young; 
Abide in Her, from whom we all have sprung. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

IIIIIIHII 

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TMOS. P. NICHOUB * SON CO., LYNN, 



